My Name Is 47
by capjack54
Summary: The murder of a low-level gangbanger sets in motion a chain of events that could very well destroy the Eppes family forever. Sequel/sisterfic to "In Pieces".
1. Endgame

Hey there, guys! I hope I have my old readers with me, as well as some new ones. A few notes about this new tale of trial and tribulation:

1. Though I love NUMB3RS to death, I don't own any part of it. Nor do I own any part of the _Hitman_ franchise, though I'm not so enthusiastic about that...

2. Updates will be roughly every 2-3 days.

3. I'm experimenting with a new method of storytelling, so be advised: the chapters are NOT in chronological order. Use the timestamps to organize events.

And, as always, read, smile, and review!

**1. Endgame**

**Monday, November 10****th****, 2008**

**8:17 PM Pacific Standard Time**

**Snooze-EZ Motel, South Central**

From somewhere in the dark, cramped room came the quiet sound of running water. The source of the noise was illuminated by no more than a pocket-size MagLite, lying discarded beside the sink; the tiny flashlight did little to beat back the shadows that thrived behind the closed shutters, and for this, the single occupant was grateful. In fact, it was one of the few things he liked about his situation; a light on in the window might tell _them_ he was here, and yet he needed some light for his task.

The tap spurted somewhat shakily, obviously having seen better days, and yet even the involuntary trickle was enough to clean the slew of cuts that interrupted the skin on his arms. They were minor, and stung only a little as he washed them out, but at this point, the only things his shirt was good for were to attract unwanted attention and perhaps entice an angry bull. Had it been his apartment, and any other set of circumstances, he would have taken a shower in order to shed the tang of sweat that hung around him, but if _they_ found him, he had to be able to run. In preparation for this inevitable event, a fully loaded Glock lay, instantly ready for use, on the counter opposite the flashlight.

In an effort to collect hid adrenaline-inebriated nerves, he splashed some tepid water on his face, rubbing at the grime and five o'clock shadow collected there and eyeing his own reflection in the cracked mirror. He absentmindedly tried to fix mussed, dark hair and arrange the handsome, careworn features into some semblance of calm, but despite his best efforts, the fear-driven man that stared back at him was the same inconveniently mortal Don Eppes that he had been three days and a lifetime ago, before all of this had started.

"Get a grip," he ordered himself under his breath.

Avoiding the petrified stare of his reflection, Don let his eyes flick to his watch, as they often did when he was nervous or threatened – unfortunately, at the moment, he was both. It was pushing 8:15, almost thirty-six hours having passed since his desperate attempt to communicate with the team. The way he figured it, he had an hour or so before _they_ showed up, which meant he'd have to move again.

Thirty minutes, he thought to himself. He would wait thirty minutes – pack-up time and a power nap, if he could manage to sleep at a time like this.

Wiping his hands on his pants, he grabbed the gun and exited the bathroom, surveying the room. The bed was unused, serving as little more than a place to store his shirt and looking barely clean enough event o perform that simple task. The carpet was an odd mustard yellow and stained with ashes and other, less savory substances. Briefly, he considered sleeping in the bathroom, then rejected the notion; it wasn't as if he'd be able to sleep anyway. Sighing, he made as if to tuck himself in the gap between the questionable bed and the wall that would render him invisible to passerby when suddenly—

--KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Don froze, gaze shooting to the door. How could _they_ have found him so quickly? He quickly rationalized that they couldn't have, and that therefore his unexpected visitor was not his pursuers. Putting his Glock behind his back just in case, Don stood to the side of the door, discreetly parting the shades to peer inquisitively at the caller. Upon catching sight of them, a wave of relief swept through him; however, in case _they_ were watching, he decided to play it off. Tucking the gun in the back of his belt with the safety on, he casually opened the door.

At first glance, the woman at the door appeared to be a class-B call girl. A tight-fitting leather coat barely concealed the most private parts of her, allowing for a detailed examination of her long, thin legs. High heels and bawdy makeup completed the costume, but one look at her red hair and concerned blue eyes and Don recognized her instantly.

"Hey, honey," Megan drawled unconvincingly. "Somebody told be you were lonely up here. Don't suppose you'd like some company there, would you?"

Don tried to keep the tremor from his voice. "Sure."

Leaning back, he allowed her entrance, topping off the sundae with a quick check of her rear – purely for appearance's sake, of course – before he shut the door behind her. After the telltale snap, all illusions were dropped.

"You scared me for a minute there," he admitted. "I didn't think you'd come."

"Sorry," she apologized hastily, fumbling with the tie to her coat. "Are you okay? You had us worried."

"I'm fine. We can talk about all that later. Right now, we need to get out of here."

"Right." Flinging open her coat, she revealed a pair of cuffs, her own Glock, and a backup, which she handed to Don along with a shoulder holster. "I thought you might need this."

Reluctantly, he took it. "We have to fight our way out of here?"

"If we leave soon, then no. There's a car parked out front to take us to the office."

"Marked?"

"No."

"Running?"

"Yes."

"Good. Let's go." Grabbing his jacket off the back of the bathroom door, he checked his watch once again: 8:28. He had two minutes.

Following Megan out the door, he uneasily ducked out from beneath the overhang. The car was a navy blue sedan, a little beat-up and with civilian plates; Don strode towards it as fast as he could without seeming out of the ordinary. Then he made his cardinal mistake. Tearing his gaze from the car, he glanced back at the motel he'd called home for the last five hours just in time to catch a glint of metal on the roof. The yell was half out of his throat when the sniper fired.

Instantly, the tempo of the world seemed to quicken, or maybe it was he who slowed in his actions. He felt something punch hard into his chest, and the pavement pressed hard against his cheek before he knew he had fallen. There was some commotion at this point; he was vaguely aware of Megan and another looming figure, most likely Colby, dragging him into the car. Past this, however, the world was suddenly a mystery to him, his harsh, labored breath allowing for little comprehension.

"…number 3695 down, send bus and backup to following address…"

"Don? Come on, stay with me—"

One thing comforted him then, at the end of it all, and that was that everything had gone to plan. Squinting to catch the second glint of the gun barrel disappearing from the rooftop, he continued to stare at the empty space.

"Well done, 47," he commended no one in particular. "Well done."

And with that, Don Eppes died.


	2. Rewind

Thanks for the reviews, guys! They make me smile, especially because you don't understand yet, but you will, trust me…

That brings up another pet peeve of mine. My stories work (hopefully) on suspense. If you think you've figured something out for yourself, DON'T PUT IT IN A REVIEW! If you have the undeniable urge to see if your answer is right before the next chapter goes up, you can always PM me, though I don't guarantee I'll confirm or deny anything.

Read, smile, and review!

**2. Rewind**

**Friday, November 7, 2008**

**7:32 PM Pacific Standard Time**

**FBI Offices, Downtown**

The office was almost deserted at this hour, and yet the mood there was content rather than lonely. Five very familiar figures moved about their cubicles, completing last-minute paperwork, putting computers into hibernation, and collecting personal effects. Through the door to the war room could be seen a television, from which evening news report was blaring. A handsome reporter sat at a desk with images of some previous torrential downpour on slideshow behind him.

"…drivers tomorrow night should be careful – visibility and traction during the storm will be poor. And now, the latest chapter in the story of Molly Perkins…"

Leaning casually against Don's cubicle, Charlie welcomed the distraction from the riveting activity of watching Don search for his keys. At the name, he perked up, his gaze going to the TV and instantly recognizing the picture of the adorable little girl that had supplanted the snowstorm images.

"Hey, guys, it's on!"

Like prairie dogs on the plains, three heads out of four popped up over the edge of their cubicles to watch the new story unfold.

"The eight-year-old from Oregon disappeared over three weeks ago on the way to school, leaving behind a distraught family and friends. Following a sighting in Los Angeles, the FBI has led the search for the girl, a search that came to an end this afternoon with her discovery at the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central. Also found at the scene where three other young girls. Officials at the scene were unable to confirm the rumors of human trafficking. The girls are unharmed, and at a press conference held earlier today, Perkins' parents expressed their gratitude towards law enforcement for bringing their daughter home safely. Elsewhere in L.A…"

Colby added a jacket and a grin to what he was wearing. "These are the kind of days you sign up for," he said contentedly. "Good guys win, bad guys lose, end of story."

Even Don, who had become characteristically stressed during the ordeal, was in good spirits. "Gotcha!" he exclaimed triumphantly, snatching his keys out his desk drawer and straightening up. "What do you say we hit that bar down the street? Drinks are on me."

"I could use one of those," agreed Megan. The duty had fallen to her to lead the recovery team at the motel, a role which had disturbed even her nerves of steel.

"I'm in," said David, zipping his coat.

"How about I'm the designated driver?" Charlie suggested meekly.

There was laughter in Don's eyes as he answered. "Aw, Chuck, you're no fun."

Charlie started to protest, but his no doubt witty comeback was interrupted by the ring of a cell phone. Don dug one out of his pocket, and Charlie noted with mild interest that it wasn't his usual phone before Don flipped it open and turned away.

"Eppes."

The change in his expression was a strange sight, all glee evaporating from his features as he listened.

"Thank you," was his first reply, and the coldness in his voice was so alien that it attracted the attention of his team members. "When did it happen?"

Upon hearing the reply, the color in his face went the way of the dodo, his eyes growing wide with shock. Crossing to the door to the war room, he stood, apparently transfixed by the story that had followed the happy news of Molly Perkins. The screen was filled with a wide shot of the burning wreckage of a blackened SUV; across the bottom was displayed the banner BREAKING NEWS.

"…passerby were startled but not injured by the explosion, which occurred just minutes ago in the Torrance area. No casualties have been confirmed as of yet, but eyewitness reports put two people in the car at the time of the explosion. L.A.P.D. are already on the scene, though they refuse to comment on the possibility of terrorism at this time…"

Pressing the phone against his shirt to muffle the speaker, he leaned heavily against the door frame.

"Shit," he hissed to himself. "Shit, shit, shit!"

Megan watched this little conniption with more than a little confusion. "Don?"

Ignoring her, Don managed to collect himself, putting the phone to his ear once more.

"Yes," he answered as calmly as he could. "Yes, I see it."

He listened for a little while longer, then looked at the phone in his hand in a way that clearly suggested whoever had been on the other end had hung up on him. Pocketing the phone, he turned to face the team, running his hand through his hair.

"We have a problem," he confirmed quietly.

"Does that problem involve overtime?" asked David sarcastically, already peeling off his outer layer like the rest of the team.

Don nodded. "I'm going to head downtown to talk to the L.A.P.D. and sort out this mess. I need you guys to hold down the fort and check some names out for me. Colby, I want you to dig up anything you can on a guy named Leon Skelly. David, you get Moe Ryder. Focus on recent movements – I want phone records, spending, anything that'll help us with a timeline of the last six months."

"Hang on, what's his name again?" asked David, plopping into his office chair and pulling out paper and pen.

"Moe Ryder, but actually, you'll find his file under Thomas Lord," Don answered, and Megan wasn't entirely comfortable with empty look that suddenly came into his eyes as he added, "_Special Agent _Thomas Lord."

"Don, what exactly is going on here?" asked Megan gently.

"It's complicated," he said. "Lord went undercover six months ago, some up-and-coming gang in South Central. But I don't understand -- he was supposed to be out a few days ago…" Furiously, he shook his head, unable to grasp whatever it was.

"What does Lord have to do with anything?" Colby puzzled, gesturing to the still visible car wreck on the television.

"Lord and this other guy, Skelly, were the two people in that car. Some monumental screw-up… listen, I don't have time to explain right now. Just start digging, okay? I might not be back until late, but I need you to find out everything you can for when I get back. Okay?"

The only thing that followed him into the elevator was silence.

**November 11, 2008**

**2:27 AM Pacific Standard Time**

**Los Angeles Morgue, Downtown**

The climate in the morgue was almost identical to that of outside, minus the howling winds and pelting rain. No, it was quiet here, a solemn place, and was with much melancholy that Charlie and Alan followed the mortician through the freezing rooms, past walls lined with steel drawers big enough to hold a grown man. It was the thought of the occupants of these that Charlie shivered at, rather than the chill about the place. Part of his mind was going around in useless circles, trying to calculate the possibility that there had been some big mistake, while the more primal side of him simply repeated a single mantra.

_It's not him. It's not him. It's not him._

Through a room with cold steel tables, down a long hall with many doors that smelled sterile, like a hospital.

_It's not him. It's not him. It's not him._

Through a door, into a small white room with tiled floors that made his footsteps echo, crowned in the center with a misshapen exam table covered by a sheet.

_It's not him. It's not him. It's not him._

Standing there a moment as the mortician walked around to the other side, looked to Alan who nodded once and tensed as with a rustle, the sheet was pulled back. Instantly, the bottom dropped out of his stomach as he stared at the cold, white corpse beneath the sheet.

"It's him," he confirmed, barely holding back a sob. "It's Don."


	3. Point of Origin

For those of you who still don't believe Don's death, even after Charlie giving his word, I say this; if that's your only objection to the story, I urge you to continue reading…

Okay, now that I'm done with introducing sudden and cryptic plotlines, hopefully things will start making _some_ sense. For reader convenience, I added days to the timestamps. Hope it helps.

Read, smile, and review!

**3. Point of Origin**

**Wednesday, November 5, 2008**

**1:12 AM Pacific Standard Time**

**Undisclosed Location, Los Angeles**

Joseph Ricci was smoking again. He watched it curl from the end of his cigarette, mixing with his visible breath to form a vapor that was carried away by the wind. So far, his week had warranted the relapse; it was bad enough that he'd agreed to act as a middle man for the Russian mob. He'd also learned the hard way that you didn't bargain with them. When they named their price, you could take the money, or they could take your head. Absentmindedly, he fingered the thin line of a scar beneath his chin that the piano wire had left two days ago when he had tried to suggest option C. These guys were bat-shit, no doubt about it, and he wondered if they'd use the same wire on him if he failed.

Not that he thought that would happen; the very particular 'problem-fixer' he was meeting with tonight came with the recommendation of almost every freelancer in the county. Word on the street was that he was an up-and-coming prodigy in the business, maybe even with some friends in high places, someone who could keep it clean and contained. That was the problem with most of them, he figured. Even if you were a hitman, you were like any other American – you had to hate your job. If you liked it, you started to get theatrical, which led to predictable, which led to sloppy, which led – eventually – to dead.

His ponderings were suddenly interrupted by a quiet click and a cool object pressed against the back of his neck. As slowly as he could manage, Ricci raised his hands over his head, not an easy task for the obese man, and whistled softly to himself.

"Shit," he couldn't help. "I didn't even hear you."

Apparently satisfied by this remark, his mysterious companion removed the gun barrel from his head. Ricci interpreted this as an invitation to move, but he'd barely begun to turn around when he felt the cold metal return.

"Don't," the figure ordered simply. "Let's keep this simple."

As much as Ricci didn't like being held at gunpoint, there wasn't much he could do about it; any quick moves would provoke a shot, and at this range, he couldn't miss. Besides, even if anyone did hear the gun's report, anyone crazy enough to hang around here this time of night was more likely to come search his corpse for cash than come to his aid. Pushing away the thoughts of escape, he dutifully catalogued the voice: male, twenties to forties. Eight years as a cop had taught him a few things.

"How simple are we talking?" he replied calmly. "You going to give me your name?"

There was a pause.

"My name," he said deliberately, "is 47."

He managed a casual shrug. "I can deal with that. With your credentials, I'd be willing to put up with a lot."

'47' seemed less than impressed. "I don't do well with flattery. You've got five seconds to tell me who sent you and why I'm here. Five."

"Hey, easy, easy!" Ricci said, alarmed by the man's cold sincerity. "I'm not wasting your time, I swear. I got a friend—"

"Four," counted 47, then added with a hint of amusement, "I'm happy for you."

Great, he thought with resentment. Now he had signed up to act as the messenger to shoot between not one, but _two_ trigger-happy parties. The Russians would love the guy, though – impersonal, direct, and not afraid to use force. Hastily, he chose the words that would possibly mark the last three seconds of his life.

"My friend has a problem."

"Three. I'm sorry."

"He'd like his problem taken care of."

"Two. I can imagine."

"And he'd like it taken care of by a professional. Like you."

"One. Again with the patronizing."

"The job's name is Leon Skelly." In a deliberate manner that afforded no surprises, Ricci reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a picture, which he passed to 47 over his shoulder. "Gangbanger. Part of La Mirada Punks, something like that."

There was a brief silence as 47 studied the picture. "Payment?"

"Seventy-five K. A hundred if you make it look like an accident."

For the first time, 47 broke his indifferent mask with a tone of blatant incredulity. "Who pays seventy-five thousand to whack a gangbanger?"

"Someone who thinks the gangbanger isn't a gangbanger."

"A Fed?" offered 47.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"So a Fed," he confirmed.

"Is this going to be a problem?"

"If it is, it's on your end. What's the time frame?"

"One week."

One last pause punctuated the exchange.

"It's done," agreed 47. "Half up front, half on completion. You can contact me with this." He handed Ricci a phone with a dead screen that made it impossible to see dialed or received numbers. "Other than that, the next time I want to hear from you is never. If you or the people you work for make any attempt to find out who I am, I _will_ kill you. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," he assured the hitman, pocketing the phone. "But still, you have to wonder; what kind of a guy calls himself 47?"

"The kind of guy that's wondering why someone from up on high is helping some baby gang weed out Feds."

"Who says I'm not from La Mirada Punks?"

"Don't even joke. There's no way they have that kind of cash. They have 'corporate sponsorship', I'm sure. So who is it? Italians?"

This one was smart. "Russians," Ricci admitted.

"Why the sudden interest in weeding?"

"I don't know," he replied, lying for the first time in their exchange. "I think there was one that gave them some trouble a few months ago. Payback or something, I guess."

Only silence answered him. Turning, Ricci scanned the shadows beneath the overhang, looking up and down the dimly lit street without any confirmation that the mysterious 47 had been anything but a ghost except the phone in his pocket. Sweeping the alley with his eyes one more time, he reached into his pocket for a cigarette and a lighter.

"One trigger-happy freak to another," he repeated quietly to himself, and he strolled down the street, cheerfully humming 'Low Rider' to the distant rhythmic pounding of someone being beaten with a tire iron.


	4. Rundown, Gundown

I had some extra time, so this chapter is going up early. Cool beans, right?

Read, smile, and review!

**4. Rundown, Gundown**

**Saturday, November 8****th****, 2008**

**10:08 AM Pacific Standard Time**

**FBI Offices, Downtown**

"Hey, have you guys seen Don?" asked Megan, nearing the clump of cubicles the team occupied. In one hand she clutched a stack of papers she'd just received from the bomb squad; in the other sat a lukewarm cup of office coffee that seriously needed refilling, though preferably with something other than the tasteless sludge that supply and requisition _called_ coffee. It was way too early – and on a Saturday morning, as well – to be operating on anything less than Starbucks.

In response to her question, Colby gave a shrug, not taking his eyes off the screen of his computer. "Not yet. The only thing I've seen since six o'clock this morning is the inside of my cubicle."

"Any luck digging up info on that agent, Lord?"  
David seemed to come out of a trance to answer. "The usual stuff. Great reviews, spotless service record… so the guys upstairs decided to throw him a bone with this undercover work."

"One hell of a promotion," remarked Colby. "From desk work to car bombs in six months."

"Anyway, Lord isn't the interesting part," continued David. "The other guy, Leon Skelly, was a grade-A skinhead. He's done a few for assault and possession; now he's a lieutenant in a small South Central gang, La Mirada Punks."

"So we're thinking gang violence, revenge as a motive," finished Colby.

Megan seemed skeptical. "A car bomb, though," she pointed out. "Explosives are expensive and hard to assemble. Why not just shoot it out on the street? And it can't have been a coincidence that Agent Lord was in the car, especially after what the bomb squad guys came up with." Grabbing a pen off her desk, she halfheartedly set down her coffee and started scribbling on the clear top section of the cubicle wall. A vague and slightly cartoonish scale model of the SUV was the result of her hasty sketching session.

"There are three ways to rig a car bomb," she explained. "You can put it on a dead man's switch, so that an action like opening the door once it's closed or leaving the driver's seat once you've sat down will trigger the explosion." She drew a small box on the underside of the car to signify the explosives, then 'wired' it to the door with a line. "Another way to do it is to wire a base charge with a remote detonator and then hang around until your target gets in the car." She drew a stick figure holding a remote and connected it to the box with a dotted line. "The third way to do it, the way the bomb squad said it was done on Skelley's car, is to directly connect the charge to the starter in the engine, so that when the cars tarts, the spark carries and ignites the charge." She added one last line that snaked out from under the car's hood and ended at the small box. "That last kind is hard to spot and hard to rig, so it usually only attracts professionals."

"But why rig Skelley's car if Lord was the target?"

"Because Lord wasn't the target," answered Don as he approached, making them all turn. His brow wrinkled at the marked-up sketch on the window. "Was Charlie here?"

"He went home sick after he helped the tech guys piece the car together on the computer," Megan informed him, and after a look at the dark circles under his eyes, her anger faded into concern. "What ran you over?"

His look was puzzled for a moment; then, comprehending, he rubbed at the bags. "I was out late last night – or this morning is more like it." When she made to press him further, he interrupted her. "What have you guys come up with?"

David quickly briefed him on Skelley, which he listened to a bit distractedly. "Good. I want you to dig deeper on this gang, La Mirada Punks, and its activity."

Nodding, David, turned back to his computer. With a sigh, Don grabbed a well-worn coffee mug off his desk and made for the kitchen. Weighing her options, Megan elected to follow. Once the door had closed behind them, she started to prod.

"Don, is there anything you want to talk about on this one?"

Avoiding her eyes, he instead turned his back to her on the pretense of making coffee. She watched him measure out the grounds and water in silence.

"Where exactly were you last night?" she tried again cautiously.

"Talking to Gary," he answered testily.

"Right." She let a moment pass. "So you're sure you're okay?"

"Fine," he replied, perhaps a bit too hastily.

The coffee had started to bubble. Megan turned to leave, but—

"It's just…" Don began, then trailed off.

"Just what? Too many things to do? Is this stress?"

"It's more than stress," he suddenly burst out. The coffee was boiling in earnest now, making loud popping noises behind Don as he fumed. "Give me as many things to do as you want, as long as they're at least possible. I'll do it. But give me something I can't do, and I mean it is _impossible _for me to do it, and—"

The coffee pot erupted, spewing hot coffee into the pitcher as it reached the peak of its heat and just blew. Then the gush slowed to a trickle, and it hissed softly as it cooled once more. Something in Don seemed to close; the frustration in his eyes faded into mere tiredness. Pouring a cup for himself, he pushed past Megan into the bull pen, only to be accosted by two armed, suited figures.

"Agent Eppes?" one asked.

Don looked them up and down. "That's me."

"I'm Agent Freeman, this is Agent Taylor. We're going to need you to come with us immediately."

"Whoa, whoa whoa, what?" he exclaimed. "Guys, I'm right in the middle of a case involving the death of a federal officer. Can't this wait?"

"It'll have to, agent," Freeman replied. "We've been ordered to remove you from the immediate area and escort you to a safe location by the director."

The director's name fazed Don only a little. "On what grounds?"

The two agents looked at each other, and Freeman sighed. "There's been a threat made against you. A tip just came in warning us about a possible assassination attempt on Don Eppes."

"By who?" asked Megan, incredulous.

"That's unclear at the moment. All we know about him so far is that he calls himself 47… "


	5. Play the Man, Master Ridley

Sorry it's late, guys. Life happens, unfortunately...

I _do _want to stop for a minute and thank everyone who took the time to review. You guys are awesome -- sincerely.

Anyway, read, smile, and review!

**5. Play the Man, Master Ridley**

**Friday, November 7, 2008**

**10:54 PM Pacific Standard Time**

**Undisclosed Location, Los Angeles**

"This is quite unorthodox."

For the second and most certainly not last time in their relationship, 47's smooth voice from behind caught Ricci by surprise. Judging by the tone, 47 was at the moment the worst kind of hitman to deal with – an angry one. Ricci shared the sentiment; he hated being snuck up on, a situation he usually averted with a few button men as guards. However, this provision was one 47 had specifically requested Ricci not take upon agreeing to meet him in the first place. He felt it wise, especially now that he had poked the bear, to honor that at least.

"Your work with Skelly was very impressive," Ricci said with a shrug, having learned by now not to try turning around. "Not only did you get rid of the guy we asked you to, you also managed to knock off the _real _Fed."

"To congratulate me," pointed out 47 coldly, "you could have called. Or brought my payment. Either would be fine."

"Like I said, my employers liked the show. They liked it so much, they want an encore."

"Our deal did not involve an extended engagement."

"My employers regret that sincerely," conceded Ricci, "which is why they are willing to pay you over six times as much as you got for Skelly."

A pause followed this declaration. Then: "I'm listening."

"It told you the Russians are doing this as revenge. Something about busting one of their lieutenants' banking scams?"

The response was guarded. "I seem to recall."

As he had before, Ricci retrieved a photo from his jacket pocket and handed it over his shoulder. "Bottom line, there's a very unhappy Russian capo sitting in the coop with some connections and a grudge."

There was an intake of breath as 47 examined the photo closely.

"Don Eppes?" The tone was one of utter disbelief. "You want me to kill Special Agent Don Eppes?"

"It sounds like you know him."

"A little."

Ricci heard the uncertainty in the hitman's voice and, realizing he was losing him, played his trump card.

"I should probably tell you that if you back out now, my employers will be forced to act. With everything you know… it's just not good business."

"I understand, but…"

"Same deadline as before – one week tops. Paycheck is five hundred grand. This one has to be public, though. It has to be personal. Can you handle it?"

"Of course I can," 47 replied quickly, defensive. "I would kill _myself_ for five hundred grand. This presents a new problem, however. An FBI agent undercover is one thing; he's cut off, has limited resources. But a federal agent at home – that's another matter entirely…"

"Fine," said Ricci with another shrug. "Take seven hundred fifty thousand – ten times the first job. Just make su/re Eppes is in the ground by next Friday."

**Sunday, November 16, 2008**

**2:02 AM Pacific Standard Time**

**Eppes Residence, Pasadena**

Charlie wouldn't have heard the door open if he hadn't been sleeping on the couch – and perhaps if his splitting headache, the reason for his bedridden state, didn't amplify every tiny noise to a painful volume. In any event, he was brought to full awareness by the squeak of the door sliding open, a noise that would have been cause for alarm if it had not been preceded by the telltale scrape of a key in the lock. Sitting up and blinking groggily, he tried to ignore the pungent smell of his half-eaten, now-cold Chinese take-out, usually the solution to any sickness. The figure shut the door quietly behind him and flipped on the light, earning a moan from light-sensitive Charlie that betrayed his unusual position.

"Charlie?" came Don's weary address. "What are you doing here?"

"Sleeping," groaned Charlie. "Just because you don't live in your house doesn't mean I don't live in mine." Slightly cross, he squinted over the back of the couch at the wall clock. "Don, it's one – no, two o'clock in the morning!"

"Yeah?" asked Don, seeming distracted. "So?"

"So why are you here?"

"I shouldn't be," he agreed. "I should be at the safehouse. I just came by to pick up a few things."

"Wait, safehouse?" Charlie exclaimed, sliding off the couch and grabbing onto various articles of furniture to keep his balance as he followed Don into the kitchen.

"Yeah, it's just this thing with a death threat," Don replied, aiming at nonchalance but coming off a little strained. "It's nothing, really. The director just wants me to stay at a safehouse tonight, just to be, well, safe. I'll be at the office tomorrow at the regular time and all—"

"Slow down, bro," urged Charlie as Don bent to stick his head in the refrigerator. "When did this happen?"

"This morning, after you left. Hey, what happened to all the beer?"

"There isn't any. You haven't been around in almost a month." Charlie waved the question aside, refusing to be sidetracked. "Where are you staying? Do you have protection? I mean—"

"You know I can't tell you that," answered Don automatically, straightening from the fridge empty-handed and proceeding to climb the stairs. Trailing behind, Charlie followed him into the guest bedroom where he crashed on weeknights.

"Maybe this is a subtle hint that you need a vacation," suggested Charlie, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame to watch Don as he slid on his back underneath the bed like a mechanic under a car. To this, Don's only answer was the sound of Velcro. When he emerged a minute later, he was holding a shiny new AMT Hardballer, which he removed from its holster and cocked before slipping on the shoulder holster itself. Rising, he stepped around Charlie and exited the room.

"Some vacation," he finally quipped, plodding back down the stairs.

"You're already here," pleaded Charlie. "Just stay."

"No. This is the first place he'd look for me."

"So it is more than nothing," Charlie pointed out triumphantly.

"It _might_ be," Don said, stressing the word. When Charlie made as if to argue, he put up one hand to stem the tide, while the other rested on the knob of the front door. "Charlie, I don't have time for this. You weren't even supposed to know I was here. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Just get some sleep – you look beat."

Ceasing in his protests, Charlie took a step away from Don, a slightly hurt look in his eyes, then turned his back on him and made as if to return to the couch.

"Chuck."

Don hesitated in the doorway, searching for words. At last, he said, "don't worry. It'll all work out. I promise."

The door shut with a snap between them, ending what was to be their last conversation with each other in the world. Wonderfully oblivious to this, Charlie just gave the closed door a dirty look and went back to bed.


	6. Never Say Never

Sorry this update took so long, guys. If you must know, I got into a car accident this last week, and I've been dealing with some of the backlash from that.

Anyway, read, smile, and review!

**6. Never Say Never**

**Sunday, November 9****th****, 2008**

**11:52 AM Pacific Standard Time**

**FBI Safehouse, Los Angeles**

The FBI sedan complained loudly as Megan shifted gears and gave the engine an extra kick of speed, dodging the lunchtime traffic with desperate jerks of the wheel. Disregarding the danger involved, she took her eyes off the road for a moment to glance hastily at her cell, lying in the passenger seat in lieu of a partner. The screen glowed cheerfully, informing her with an even contentedness only achievable by AI personalities that she had one missed call. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she grabbed it off the seat, fumbling with the buttons until she got into her voicemail.

"This is Colby. We're at the house right now. It took some persuading to get them to stay put, but we should be all right for the time being. We tried to talk to Charlie; he just keeps going on about how Don was here last night. Call me or David if you need backup."

With a sigh, she ended the connection, returning her focus to the road just in time to avoid being tenderized by an eighteen-wheeler. That had certainly gone better than her last missed call, which was the very reason, she thought guiltily, she was now speeding through the better part of L.A. county like a maniac. Despite previous experience, she distracted herself once again with button-mashing to pull up a stored message.

"Sunday… two… forty… three… A…M," tagged the phone voice dutifully, just as it had a little over a half an hour ago in the middle of the morning brief that it had subsequently ended. When the message started, the background was immediately filled with heavy breathing and punctuated by the occasional angry car horn. The frantic note in Don's voice still gave her the shivers, even after listening to the message nine or ten times already.

"Megan," he hissed, out of breath. "Megan, it's Don. Please pick up, please pick up—"

She couldn't help jumping at the gunshot that followed, further shocked by how close it sounded; and yet, after a few seconds of just the plod of running footfalls, Don's voice cut back in.

"Listen to me; the safehouse was dirty – I repeat, the safehouse was dirty. I need backup, now. Megan? Megan?"

Three more shots ripped through the background. Megan's stomach twisted involuntarily at a sound of the phone clattering to the ground, and after that, there was just silence until the message timed out. Shaking her head, she flipped the phone shut and tossed it back into the passenger seat as she veered off onto a side street with suicidal grace.

Fifteen minutes later, she was walking up the stairwell of a modest apartment building, finding herself surprised that supplies and requisition would have set up a safehouse on the second floor, a location that would have made it twice as hard to escape in a hurry. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the hallway was thankfully not swarmed with police; protocol demanded that not much attention be afforded a safehouse in case it could be recycled, but a quick glance around the place gave Megan the distinct impression that no sane agent would be bunking here for quite a while.

The apartment might have been quite charming and cozy if anyone had bothered to keep it up, but, like most locations involved in covert ops, there was little to show that anyone had occupied the house at all. It exuded a kind of bland tastelessness that was achieved only with the help of white walls, Formica countertops, and no furniture to speak of save a folding chair and a tiny black-and-white TV set in the kitchen area. It was this last object that immediately caught Megan's attention; it appeared to be playing the news, but upon close inspection, the timestamp betrayed it as from Friday. Sidestepping a few forensics guys and two solemn-looking policemen, she approached the set, turning up the volume just loud enough for her to hear. Almost instantly, she recognized the story – the closure on Molly Perkins they'd been ready to celebrate over.

"…search that came to an end this afternoon with her discovery at the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central," said the reporter with a dashing smile, laying his prompt card flat on the table. Then the picture skipped, and he was once again cracking a grin and laying the card flat. "…search that came to an end this afternoon with her discovery at the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central--" The picture skipped again. "…search that came to an end this afternoon with her discovery at the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central-- search that came to an end this afternoon with her discovery at the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central -- search that came to an end this afternoon with her discovery at the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central—"

At his point, she realized that the segment of a report was a looped recording that kept skipping back to the beginning. At the sound of the report, one of the policemen looked over at her.

"Can I help you, miss?" he asked politely.

"You don't have to play dumb with me, officer," she assured him, showing him her credentials.

At the sight of her badge, he relaxed, his shoulders sagging and a sad look coming into his eyes. He nodded towards the TV set. "That was playing when we got here. Turned up as high as it could go – that was why the neighbors originally called. We passed it off as a simple disturbing the peace charge, something for the morning, until we got another call about shots fired at the same address."

Megan nodded and did another sweep of the room with her eyes. The walls were peppered with holes at all levels. The blinds were shut, but they fluttered listlessly in the breeze let in by a shattered window; with a pang, she picked out from among the shards on the floor the shattered remains of a beer bottle, on and around which a decent amount of blood had settled.

"Forensics found two kinds of bullets in the walls," continued the officer. "One is the regular Glock ammo, but the other is going to take the lab to identify. They found the Glock shots in the wall near the door, and our mystery shot in the opposite wall. The lock on the door wasn't busted, so the current theory is that the shooter tricked your agent into letting him in."

Immediately, skepticism flared in her; Don would never make that kind of mistake. Unless…

"Maybe it wasn't a trick," she suggested. "All you need to get into a safehouse is a call number and the house password."

The officer raised an eyebrow. "An inside job?"

She shrugged, following the line of holes up and down the walls like a twisted game of connect-the-dots. _Don needs your help, _the coloring page description would read. _Can you connect all the bullet holes in order to reach the bloodstain at the end?_

"Now for the one million dollar question," the officer concluded, interrupting her thoughts once more. "Any idea where your boy went after all this went down?"

Turning, Megan considered for a moment. Suddenly, her gaze shot to the TV set.

"…search that came to an end this afternoon with her discovery at the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central," droned the TV. "…search that came to an end this afternoon with her discovery at the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central -- search that came to an end this afternoon with her discovery at the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central—"

With something bordering a smile, she took out her cell phone and dialed Colby's number.

"Colby? It's Megan. Yeah, things look pretty bad down here. No, but I think I know where he _will_ be. Remember the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central…?"


	7. Seeking Solace

My absence is inexcusable; besides, excuses aren't what ANs are for. What they are for is to thank very patient readers who put up with all sorts of crap like really, REALLY late posts and still bother to read and leave reviews. You guys rock. Sincerely.

Thank you, Emma, for dutifully fact-checking my work when I go off the deep end...

Here's a double/triple whammy to make up for my prolonged absence…

**7. Seeking Solace**

**Friday, November 14, 2008**

**4:16 PM Pacific Standard Time**

**Temple Emanuel, Beverly Hills**

It wasn't raining.

This, like everything else that had happened in the last three days, only served to add to Charlie's grief. Did his brother not even deserve a quick drizzle to mark the occasion? On the way here, he had stared out the window, watching time continue to pass, watching the world continue to spin, and, for all his genius, not understanding how. There were yuppies waiting in line for their fast food, kids walking home from school, even two women laughing as they exited a clothing store, arms laden with shopping. Did they not know a man had died? Had died for _them_?

Now, sitting here in the cathedral, he raised his eyes from the floor to gaze a moment at the casket. It sat right in the middle of it all, the grisly centerpiece of what had been a beautiful service. Thankfully, the lid was firmly shut, in accordance with the customs of their faith; the single look he'd had in the morgue had been more than he'd ever need. In recognition of his service, a large American flag had been draped over the coffin, wrapping it in an eternal embrace that stood in sharp contrast to the dark wood and polished brass.

"I only knew Don for three years," said Megan, standing at the pulpit; her words jerked Charlie from his grief-struck reverie. "But those years had to be some of the best of my life. Even when the job got tough, Don was always there to pull his team together and press on. He was one of the most dedicated agents I've ever met; it was an honor and a privilege to work with him. He put his life on the line every day to keep this country safe. I think the fact he died in the line of duty says more for him than I ever could." Looking to the coffin, she concluded. "Thank you, Don. You will be missed."

There were nods of agreement and encouragement from the audience, which consisted of only family and his team, as per his will's request. Colby and David stood to let her return to her seat, and she in turn gave Liz a quick pat on the shoulder as she resumed her place beside her.

"The family would like to say a few words at this time," said the rabbi, peering at Charlie sadly with wizened eyes.

When he had first seen Don in the morgue, his legs had felt like two pillars of jelly trying to hold up a tower of bricks. Standing up and walking to the pulpit, he felt less unsure of himself than distant, as if her were watching himself climb the stairs from a safe distance rather than actually doing it. But once he started to speak, he was suddenly and irrevocably there, in front of all those people, reading the words that had plagued him since he'd heard the news.

He'd written about their childhood, how Don had grown strong in the absence of supervision. He'd written about his early days of work, and the dedicatin he had shown for the duties he was given. He'd written about their mother's illness, and all that Don had sacrificed to make sure he was there for his family both before and after her passing. He'd written most of all about their work together, and all the people they had saved in the process. But as he stood there, looking down at all the things he meant to say, he realized it wasn't enough. Solemnly, he turned the paper over and stared out at the crowd.

"It will never be enough," he repeated. "No matter what we say here, nothing can come close to doing him justice. The essence of man cannot be boiled down to a page of accomplishments. All we can say is goodbye, whether it's to a comrade-" he gestured to the gathered federal agents, "-to a son-" he turned to his father, hunched over with eyes bulging with tears, "-or to a brother."

For a minute, he stood, collecting himself. Then, voice husky, he finished.

"To Don Eppes," he said. "A born cop."

In the very back of the synagogue, unbeknownst to the other mourners present, a cell phone started to ring. The cell's owner wiped some stray tears from his cheeks and hastily stepped outside to answer it.

"Nice work," came Joseph Ricci's voice on the other end. "On time and as ordered."

"It's my job," answered 47, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. "A job I expect to be paid for."

"Of course," answered Ricci. "On your terms, as requested."

"There's a restaurant in West L.A., Il Moro," 47 continued, ducking into a side corridor as the procession emerged from the chapel. "We have reservations for Saturday at 5:30. There's a few people who I'd like to meet."

"What do you mean?" Ricci sounded like he was out of his element.

"Your employers. Bring them. After the work I've done for them, I guarantee they'll be interested in what I have to say."

"And what is it they'd be discussing?"

"An exclusive contract. I've proved to you I'm the best. You make me your regular hitter, and you'll get more for less, I promise."

There was a dangerous pause.

"Saturday, 5:30, at Il Moro?" questioned Ricci.

"Yes."

"I'll see what I can do," Ricci said noncommittally.

"Just be there," urged 47.

With that, he flipped the phone shut, careful to pull his jacket over the Hardballer that occupied his shoulder holster before pushing through the synagogue doors into the November chill.


	8. Echoes Interrupted

Welcome to the big punch line, ladies and gentlemen.

**8. Echoes Interrupted**

**Friday, November 7****th****, 2008**

**12:54 PM Pacific Standard Time**

**Undisclosed Location, Los Angeles**

Ian Edgerton stared down the barrel of a gun; luckily, he was not on the business end. Perhaps 300 feet away and framed in the sights of the precision sniper rifle with which he was armed stood a fat little man who appeared to not be having a very good day. Unfortunately for the fat man, his day was about to get a good deal worse, at least when the call came through his earpiece that he had a green light to shoot.

Impatiently, Ian watched the man mill about for a minute or two. According to the brief he'd received this afternoon, he and the fat man, Ricci, were waiting for the same thing – an up-and-coming hitman with a record that had earned him a shoot upon sight order. Since the guy was a big fish – or on his way to becoming one – they'd called Ian in.

He perked up as he suddenly noticed Ricci's absence. Taking his eyes off the crosshairs, he scanned the street for any sign of him, only to catch a glimpse of the man's leather jacket as he shifted somewhere in the shadows. Growling with anger, he tried to pick out Ricci's visitor from the dark, but even with night vision, the building's overhang obscured his view.

The earpiece crackled to life. "Unit 1 to Roof. Target has arrived; repeat, target has arrived. Do you have a clear shot? Over."

After another few attempts at repositioning, Ian radioed back in defeat. "Roof to Unit 1. Clear shot his negative. Suggest course of action. Over."

A few moments passed, and then: "Unit 1 to Roof. Target has left the area; repeat, target has left the area. All units are ordered to stand down."

With a sigh, Ian shot one last look at the distant Ricci, who was strolling leisurely down the street in full sight, and started to disassemble his weapon. He was flipping shut the latches on the case by the time his earpiece came to life again.

"Ian Edgerton?"

Instantly, he froze. No agent involved in a covert op would ever, EVER use a name; call numbers were about as personal as it got. Plus, the voice was distorted, a strange AI neuter voice that chilled him even more. No, this was an outsider. Hesitantly, he answered.

"Who is this?"

"My name," came the reply, "is 47."

The name he recognized from the brief. "What do you want from me?"

"I need you to do something for me."

"Why would I do anything for you?"

The answer surprised him, preceded by a chuckle that sounded bizarre when distorted. "You're right. I already owe you at least three by now. But I'm going to have to owe you one more."

His response was guarded. "Do I know you?"

"You betcha," said 47 comically. "But anyway – I need you to do something for me, Mr. Edgerton. In two days time, I need you to kill me."

The door he'd used to gain access to the roof banged open behind him, and when Ian turned, he found himself face-to-face with the infamous 47.

And he laughed.

**Saturday, November 15, 2008**

**11:07 PM Pacific Standard Time**

**Eppes Residence, Pasadena**

"Thank you again, Millie. No, no, really, I'm fine. I just need some time off. Yes. Yes, he was. I'd rather not talk about it, actually, if you don't mind. Thanks. No, I'll be back in a few weeks. Yes, I'm sure that's all. I'll talk to you again then, okay? No, it's fine. Tell Larry thank you for me. All right, see you, Millie."

With a sigh of relief, Charlie dropped the phone into the trash can rather than replace it on the hook. An old-fashioned rotary his father had had installed on a separate line for Charlie's FBI work, it moaned dully at a single pitch from its place among the garbage. At present, his brain wished it could escape his head and jump in as well. Between the headache and the heartache, he was completely and thoroughly tired; and yet, looking at the legions of assembled chalkboards, upon which the equation P vs. NP was scrawled, his brain whirred with activity.

Leaving the phone where it lay, he crossed to the nearest board and picked up where he had left off when his proverbial train of thought had been derailed by the penny of Millie's call. And yet, even with the interruption, all through their conversation, he couldn't get the equation out of his head. All yesterday he'd felt it building, sharpening in mental image, and as soon as they'd returned from the funeral, he'd headed straight for the garage and locked himself inside. Twenty-eight hours later, he was exhausted, and yet the continuing equation kept his mind occupied with something other than grief; the promise that it would occupy his mind forever, the thought that he'd never have to think about Don, comforted him more than any words of condolence he'd yet heard. The world outside the garage could undergo one of Larry's famous 'total existence failures' as long as he was certain he was tied up for infinity, he didn't care.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Charlie heard it over both the clack of chalk on the board and the monotonous dial tone of the rotary. Finishing the line he was on with a flourish, he glanced in puzzlement at his watch. Being occupied forever meant time had no meaning for him, but it was still relevant to everyone else, including the person now knocking on the front door at this ungodly hour. With a deep sigh of frustration, he set down his chalk and assembled his features into some semblance of calm depression before padding slowly into the house. Passing the living room, filled with empty beer bottles which had no doubt helped to comfort his father in his absence, and the dining room, the table covered with flowers, cards, and other forms of condolence, he ran to get the door as a second set of knocking started.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," grumbled Charlie under his breath. "Why can't everyone just leave me—"

He opened the door and was instantly rendered mute by the person he saw there. Before he could react, the visitor had him in a tight embrace, crushing what little breath he'd accumulated for the purpose of formulating a response. Finally, they broke apart; Charlie stood for another minute, dumbstruck.

"B-b-but… I… I saw you… you were…"

"I promised you," said Don Eppes, standing in the doorway with a smile that defied the horizontal limits of his face, "that it would all work out."


	9. One Last Bow

Long time, no see. We're almost at the end, dear readers. I hope you have enjoyed reading this tale of woe as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Thank you for your patience and for your encouraging reviews. You guys are great.

Due to my prolongued absence, the next, and (sniff sniff) FINAL chapter will most likely be up later today, so stay tuned.

Read, smile, and review!

**9. One Last Bow**

**Saturday, November 15, 2008**

**4:57 PM Pacific Standard Time**

**FBI Offices, Downtown**

Somewhere in the darkened office, a phone began to ring.

Curiously enough, the phone in question was one in the bull pen, sitting on a lately unused desk, kept company by a small plaque that read SPECIAL AGENT DON EPPES that no one had yet had the heart to clear away. It rang four times, then emitted an irritated beep of neglect as the call went to machine. Instantly, an odd neuter voice distortion filled the speakers.

"Good evening, agents. My name is 47. On Monday, November 10, at approximately 8:30 PM, I shot one Special Agent Don Eppes outside the Snooze-EZ motel in South Central L.A. May I take this opportunity to offer my deepest condolences, and also to tell you that I will be at the restaurant Il Moro, in West L.A., in twenty minutes; if you apprehend me there, I assure you that I will cooperate fully. If you don't, I guarantee that you will lose both myself and someone about whom you care very much forever. Have a good night."

The machine beeped and whirred at the end of the message. The only other sound in the otherwise silent office was the quiet ring of the elevator as it came to a stop, the efficient slide of opening doors, and the subdued click, click, click, of high heels on tile, which stopped abruptly as their owner noticed the tiny red light winking in the dark.

Puzzled, Megan crossed to the now permanently vacant desk and hesitantly reached out to push to playback button.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP…

"Good evening, agents. My name is 47—"

**Saturday, November 15, 2008**

**5:22 PM Pacific Standard Time**

**Il Moro, West L.A.**

An overabundance of white marble gave the restaurant that classy, haughty look reserved for outlets of only the higher cuisines – in this case, traditional Italian. With annoyance, Ricci, dodged waiters impossibly balancing trays laden with chicken marsala, manicotti, and minestrone, observing with an inward laugh that until his recent change in occupation, there was more money on those trays than he'd made in a month.

Not that his current gig was entirely peachy. The Russians ran things like any business; if they needed to cut down on salaries, they gave you more benefits. In their employ, Ricci had one benefit – remaining alive – and, big surprise, the cost of that particular benefit was going up all the time, especially considering his latest stunt. The two Russian higher-ups he had in tow would testify to just how out of line he was. In fact, if Ricci hadn't offered to cover the fantastic cost of their meals, they might not have come at all.

Fortunately for Ricci, the Russians were fairly good at blending in in these sort of places. Semynov, an older man in Armani, was the leading gunrunner in this part of the country, smuggling everything from backup pistols to AK-47s over the border. The other man, much younger and well aware of it, was Pokrovsky; he had serious connections with the D.A.'s office, enough to get a good number of handpicked felons out of jail and on the streets in his name. Failing them, Ricci figured, was as simple as a plus b equals c; guns plus thugs equaled him in a wood chipper.

At the front desk, they had given the fake name they'd been supplied by 47; the waiter had immediately perked up, escorting them through the restaurant with a vim and verve Ricci mistook for angling for a bigger tip. At last, the waiter turned, motioning to a table in the far corner. Ricci started in surprise as he noticed the man sitting at it, his back to Ricci and the other diners; this was the first time he'd see 47 in the light, and yet, he looked somehow familiar. Upon Ricci's approach, the man looked up from his menu.

"That you, Ricci?" he called jovially.

"47," he greeted awkwardly. He gestured to his two companions even though 47 wasn't looking. "This is Mr. Semynov, and this is Mr. Pokrovsky. They are interested in negotiating your contract further."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," replied 47 cheerfully, setting down the menu.

"Excuse me?" sputtered Ricci. He could feel the angry gaze of his superiors on him without looking.

"I've actually already got a pretty good job, you see," said 47, now fishing in his pocket for something.

"But…but…" Ricci started, and the man turned to face them. Ricci gaped first at the man's badge, and then at his cheerfully grinning face as, with a flourish, he held up the surveillance photo Ricci had given 47 – had given to _him._

"Agent Eppes," he announced himself. "FBI."

Ricci stood for a moment, dumbfounded, while Pokrovsky turned to the assembled restaurant, which had begun to take notice of the events in the corner, and started yelling in Russian. The babble was apparently a set of instructions, which, once several of the diners rose, revealing weapons, became startlingly clear. Semynov himself pulled out a loaded Sig Arms 226 and clicked back the safety. He'd gotten off two shots sending unwary diners scrambling for cover, before a quite familiar redhead managed to draw her own weapon and put a slug in his thigh; he fell with a hardly subdued cry.

Ricci and the Pokrovsky, alerted to the danger, made a run for the front door of the restaurant, leaping chairs and toppling tabled as they went. Pokrovsky's soldiers, entrusted with their escape, found themselves engaged by two other diners, one a well-built white man, the other an African-American armed with a Glock, who both elected to ignore the fleeing duo. Instead, a somehow intact 47 – Don – scrambled to his feet, with one hand clutching a bloody graze on the sleeve of his quietly tailored Italian suit, the other grabbing a silver Hardballer form its holster, and ran after them. Seeing this, Megan realized with a start the possible consequences. As they neared the door, she fumbled with her earpiece.

"Unit 1 to Roof."

Silence answered. Pokrovsky was past the maître d's station.

"Unit 1 to Roof, come in."

Nothing. The mobster was pushing open the door.

"Ian, don't shoot, for God's sake, don't--"

BANG.

The side of Pokrovsky's head blew off in an interesting display of gore, and he went limp and had started to fall before--

BANG.

A grunt escaped Ricci as a shot went through his bicep; he tumbled, rolled expertly, and kept running, and--

BANG.

All three assembled agents watched with a sudden fear as Don jerked back, confirming the accuracy of the shot; he stumbled, barely avoided tripping over Pokrovsky, and, in a move that left the others staring after him, confused, recovered his balance, pressing his injured arm to his chest, and shot off in pursuit. Abandoning the still-moaning Semynov, Megan ran to the door, braving the grotesque remains of Pokrovsky, and looked out just in time to see Don tackle Ricci to the ground. For a second, they struggled; a gun went off, but neither seemed affected, and, after a moment, Ricci stopped the fight and raised his hands in defeat.

Two black sedans pulled up, parking sideways across the street on either side of the pair, and out jumped the backup she'd requested, a little too keyed-up and trigger-happy for their own good. Slowly, Don rolled off Ricci, his uninjured arm raised, and tossed the Hardballer away. They started forward, making as if to put him in cuffs, but Megan intervened, assuring them of Don's right to be here before she was allowed near him. He seemed in a bad way, breathing hard and pained, but he smiled at her approach.

"Hey," he said between breaths. "Nice eulogy."

She gaped at his nonchalance. "What?"

"At my funeral," he prompted, simultaneously starting to unbutton his bullet-hole-ridden shirt. "Very nice. I had no idea you guys thought so highly of me."

At last, he pulled open the button-up to reveal a worn flak jacket with two bullets buried in it, both fired from reasonably close range from a high-powered sniper rifle. Investigating further, Don pulled this away too, prodding tenderly at the two bruises there, one dark and old, the other developing quickly. Purple lines under the skin suggested a rib or two had been broken

"Damn," groaned Don, looking down at himself with vague disappointment. "That's gonna leave a mark. _Another one._" Glancing up, he searched the second-floor windows of the building across the street form Il Moro, picking out from among them the one occupied with the grinning visage of a sniper. Ian gave him the thumbs up. Don gave him the finger. Ian disappeared from the window, and Don set about reassembling his outfit.

Megan knelt beside him, her jaw set. "So, are you going to tell me why everybody thinks you've been dead for four days?"

"Well, there's a funny story behind that," said Don with another brief grin. "It all started about two weeks ago…"


	10. Epilogue: Connect the Dots

This is, unfortunately, the absoltue end. Thank you, readers, one and all. Like Don, I take my last bow. Hope to have you guys with me on future stories.

Read, smile, and review!

**10. Epilogue – Connect the Dots**

**Sunday, November 16, 2008**

**9:03 PM Pacific Standard Time**

**Eppes Residence, Pasadena**

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

FD-204 Official Investigative Report

Investigator:_ Special Agent Don Eppes_

Call #: _3695_

Statement:

_In early May, the L.A. Field Office was informed as to a potential opportunity for undercover work within the Russian mob operating in the city. Contacts on the street confirmed the Russians' sudden interest in a relatively small and little-known skinhead gang in South Central L.A., La Mirada Punks. The gang's second-in-command was killed in a drug bust shootout on Friday, May 16, 2008. The Bureau, initiating an undercover operation, installed Special Agent Thomas Lord, using the alias Moe Ryder; Agent Lord spent six months in the role with little contact with the outside._

_On Monday, October 27, the Bureau received intelligence that Agent Lord's identity might be compromised. Considering the especially sensitive nature of Agent Lord's position, the Bureau made arrangements for his extraction on Sunday, November 2. However, following several failed attempts at extraction, the Bureau elected to adopt another plan._

_I was contacted on Monday, November 3, and briefed on Agent Lord's situation. Following review of the extraction plans, I decided to myself go undercover as a contract killer who our street contracts would in turn recommend to whoever had put out the hit on Agent Lord. This was successful; on Wednesday, November 5, at approximately 1:15 AM, I met with a man named Joseph Ricci, a former cop who had recently begun representing the Russian mob in business transactions. Ricci did not hire me to kill Agent Lord; instead, he offered me seventy-five thousand dollars to kill Leon Skelly, a close 'friend' of Agent Lord's while undercover, who the Russians suspected as being an agent. _

_Since Skelly had an SUS order on him, plan was developed to this end; I would be very clearly observed planting an explosive device on Skelly's car, which, once Skelly returned to his car, would trigger and kill him. Agent Lord, however, accompanied Skelly to the car, and, on Friday, November 7, at approximately 7:15 PM, was subsequently killed in the ensuing blast. Following the killings, I was contacted once more by Ricci, who informed me he was "impressed with my work" and wished to meet with me further. Early Saturday morning, at approximately 1:00 AM, I once more met with Ricci, who, unaware of my identity, offered me a further seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to kill myself._

_Wishing to remain undercover as long as possible, I agreed. Immediately after the meeting, I met with Agent Ian Edgerton, a professional sniper for the Bureau, and asked him for assistance in creating my death. Later that morning, at approximately 10:00 AM, I programmed an automatic system to call the FBI Offices and make a threat on my life in the name of my assumed persona. Once the threat was received and processed, I was immediately removed from the premises and escorted to a predetermined safehouse at an undisclosed location. Dismissing my assigned guard, I returned to the residence of my brother, Charles Eppes, and retrieved from a concealed location an unregistered AMT Hardballer for use while undercover._

_Returning to the safehouse at approximately 3:00 AM Sunday morning, I spent several hours arranging the apartment; using both the Hardballer and my standard issue Glock, I made it appear as if my assailant had discovered my position and there had been an altercation. I left an easily interpretable clue as to where I would go. After a day on the run, I made my way to the Snooze-EZ Motel in South Central L.A., where I had informed Agent Edgerton I would be. At approximately 7:15 PM, I administered myself an intentional overdose of the drug pentobarbital, which would conceal my vital signs to simulate death. _

_One hour later, I was discovered by Agent Megan Reeves, second-in-command of my team, who offered me assistance in 'escaping.' Concealed on an adjoining rooftop, Agent Edgerton shot me while I was exposed; however, I was wearing a flak jacket, and the only injuries I received were some broken ribs as a consequence of the relatively close shot. I was declared officially dead at 10:42 PM, and my body was officially identified at approximately 2:45 AM on Tuesday, November 11. Three hours after this, I awoke and was escorted to a remote location by Agent Edgerton. _

_On Friday, November 14, 2008, following my attendance of my own funeral, I was contacted once more by Joseph Ricci, who agreed to a face-to-face meeting on Saturday, November 15, at 5:30 at Il Moro Restaurant in West L.A. He was to bring my payment, as well a few of his superiors, to whom I had expressed interest in a 'permanent contract'. Approximately 30 minutes before the dinner meet, I contacted Special Agent Reeves and informed her of my situation under the guise of the contract killer to guarantee the Bureau's presence. _

_The meet occurred at the scheduled time. Once I had revealed my identity, Ricci, Pokrovsky, and Semynov all attempted to flee the premises. After a brief altercation with several accomplices of Pokrovsky and Semynov, agents on the scene were able to subdue Semynov. Pokrovsky was killed by Agent Edgerton, stationed in a covert position, as he attempted to flee; I myself apprehended Joseph Ricci. Following the incident, I was taken to L.A. County Hospital for examination by a doctor. For further details on my current medical status, see forms FD-897 and FD-898._

_The operation was officially terminated at 10:04 Pm on Saturday, November 15, 2008._

Letting out a subdued sigh, Charlie set the paper beside him on the end table, trading it for a beer which he swigged reflectively. Slumped on the couch in his own living room, he at present had just about as much energy to move as a beached whale. Upstairs, he could hear the restful snores of his father, which comforted him more than anything so far. When they had believed Don to be dead, it was as if Alan had gone into hyper drive. Suddenly, there was everything in the world to do; dishes needed washing, the house needed painting, and the laundry desperately needed folding… at three o'clock in the morning. When Don had finally shown up, it was as if all the energy had gone out of him, and he once more became their humorous and witty – if completely exhausted – father. Fortunately, he wasn't the only one left wiped from the week's activities

Heaving himself off the couch, Charlie tiptoed cautiously into the dining room. There lay Don, sound asleep with a comfy pillow of FD-277s, FD-320s, and SF-95s – all in all, a sizable mass of bureaucratic forms -- four beers and two spent pens scattered throughout. His hair was mussed and unkempt – he'd not yet had time to take a shower – and he was in a pair of ripped jeans and a sweatshirt that read FBI. Sneaking over, Charlie carefully reached out, picked up a pen, arranged the FD-204 as it had been when he'd stolen it, adding the pen on top for good measure. For a second, he merely watched his brother, noting the stress in his expression that hadn't even left him in sleep. Then he turned and started to quietly make his escape, when he suddenly heard a deep intake of breath. Turning, he winced in disappointment as he watched Don stir, eyes fluttering open hesitantly; raising his head slowly, he squinted in the glare of the dining room light.

"Charlie?" he mumbled quietly. "That you?"

"Hey, Don," he said, turning to address his brother. "How do you feel?"

Sitting up, Don flexed his bandaged bicep cautiously. "Arm's sore," he said, adopting gruntish. "Got a headache, too."

"The doctor said you could take aspirin," Charlie suggested.

"Yeah," slurred Don with a cheerful grin. "Thanks, Chuck."

"Not a problem," Charlie assured him, purposely ignoring the nickname and instead moving off to get some. When he returned a minute later, Don had resumed his laborious form writing. He handed Don the pills and the glass of water one by one as he downed each. When he made as if to continue writing, Charlie stopped him.

"Do them tomorrow," insisted Charlie. "Or Tuesday. You have until Wednesday for medical leave. You might actually want to try getting some rest." He paused, then added quietly, "your life doesn't always have to be about your job, you know."

Don looked up sharply at his tone. After a moment of silence spent studying Charlie's expression, he sighed.

"Look, Charlie, I'm sorry about all this. I wanted to tell you, I really did, but—"

"I know," interrupted Charlie.

"I know it was hard on you and Dad, but I'm here now, and we're all a lot safer than we would have been if I hadn't done this. The Russians would still have out a hit on me, and it wouldn't be Ian firing at me while I had a flak jacket on."

For a minute, Charlie considered him. Then a grin crept across his face, and he quickly reached out and poked Don in the ribs, earning a brief gasp of pain from his brother.

"That was for being an ass," he said, then added, "_now _I forgive you."

"Damn," exclaimed Don, still reeling. "Don't mess with Chuck when he's angry." He set down his pen and put his hands up in mock defeat. "I surrender. Take me away."

With a smile, Charlie pulled Don's good arm over his shoulder and supported him up the stairs to bed.

FINIS


End file.
